


Be a Body

by cracktheglasses (cormallen)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Come Eating, Felching, Filth just filth, M/M, Mind Reading, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, very slight Hux/OMC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-08 22:25:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6876394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cormallen/pseuds/cracktheglasses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>General Hux likes spending his shore leave somewhere anonymous, convenient and blessedly free of Kylo Ren. Somewhere full of men with big hands, and preferably with a good bathroom to do Mon Gazza spice in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be a Body

**Author's Note:**

> I blame [@machinewithoutfeelings](http://machinewithoutfeelings.tumblr.com/), who wanted something about space coke. I hope it's everything you wanted, enabler :)
> 
> Thank you so much for wrangling it for me, [caz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cazzy/pseuds/cazzy)! And [wyomingnot](http://wyomingnot.tumblr.com/), for prodding me and indulging my whining! 
> 
> Title from Grimes.

“Kriff, baby, you knew exactly what you wanted, coming here tonight,” the guy drawls, crowding Hux further into the little bathroom. The music is pulsing even in here, a rhythmic electronic beat that vibrates through the walls, the floor, into the nooks and hollows of Hux’s bones.

He mostly hates it. It’s barely more than ordered noise, a discordant cacophony, but in some strange, primal way, it feels good, too. Fitting. Another thing he’s allowing himself tonight that is completely outside of his usual purview, and Hux takes a deep, slow breath, feels the filtered, scrubbed station air coil in and out of his lungs.

“Oh, we’re gonna have _fun_ , gorgeous,” the guy says; Hux would rather prefer he were quiet, but at least he is pleasant enough to look at. Dark wavy hair dyed in shimmering blue streaks. Big hands. Skin the color of Akivan honey, like the officers get in their weekly ration -- synthetic, but a decent enough riff on the real thing, viscous and nutty-sweet mixed into his morning tea.

Morning tea. What a ridiculous thing to draw up for comparison, Hux thinks, but it’s a lazy admonishment, curling slow around another stray image, those big hands wrapped easy around his hips, and that makes him pause, blink, his insides feeling hot and heavy.

Oh. _Oh_. It must be kicking in already, that low reverb of bass through his skin; it was a horrible idea, maybe, but it feels good. He hasn’t tried this particular sort before, but if what he’s read is true, it’s about to feel even better.

Hux steps up to the sink, lets the water run a moment before splashing some on his overheated face. In the mirror, his eyes look neon-bright, the pupils dilated; he watches the guy’s reflection sidle up behind his, pupils equally blown in the low light, an already sweaty streak of blue-tinted hair sliding down over his forehead.

A horrible idea, Hux repeats to himself, but he is already bracing his hands on the sink, bending forward, legs apart, as the guy reaches around to undo his zipper.

“Look at you,” the guy says, pulling Hux’s trousers and briefs down to his thighs. “Look at that ass, I bet you can’t wait for me to fill it right up.”

His knees wobble; a dizzy little shiver slurs through him, crown to toes.

“In my left pocket,” Hux tells to his reflection; his voice sounds alien, too loud, like he is already out of control. He feels the guy’s fingers slide in, teasing at the top of his thigh, and his cock twitches against the band of his briefs, hard and aching already and they haven’t even started.

The guy’s hands withdraw and he hears the tell-tale rip of the single-serve packet of lube, waits for its cool, slippery touch at his hole, eyes sliding shut in anticipation. The guy keeps talking, something else about his ass, his freckles, but Hux tunes him out, focuses on the cool, textured feel of the marble sink under his hands, the perfect smoothness of the water as the last droplets slide down his cheek.

He deserves this. Stars, he deserves this, after the week, the month, the cycle he’s had. The delays in construction, the rising costs of rhydonium, Leader Snoke’s pet Knight invading his ship --

\-- no, he won’t think of Kylo Ren right now, he decides, gasping as the tacky lube is dripped down his crack, the guy’s fingers smoothing it down, massaging it into his skin. The tip of a thumb catches on his rim, presses in, and Hux slides his legs open wider, tilts his hips back into the spreading, grinding touch.

His slow-burning, spice-stretched mind is slow to catch up, still swirling around with thoughts of Ren, his damnable mask, its polished black and silver angles recalled in the pattern of the club’s walls. Hux has never seen him without it; has wondered sometimes if he sleeps in it. If he sleeps. If he’s truly even a _he_ underneath its durasteel shell, underneath his carapace of black and black and black. He suddenly remembers Mitaka and Thanisson taking bets on whether Ren is human at all and laughs out loud; he thinks droid may have had the best odds, followed by Nagai and Nikto.

The guy is crowding up behind him. Hux hears the clank of a belt buckle, the shuck of a zipper and trembles, blood rushing hot to his face. He can feel the flush spreading down, over his neck, his shoulders, into his chest, his heart pounding into the cage of his ribs. A hand wraps around his hip, steadying.

“Ready, baby?” the guy asks, fingers kneading into his skin; apparently, he is going to keep up the talking. Hux sighs, but breathes out a yes and braces for it, the tight, initial burn before it turns sweet. He feels the wet glide, the blunt head fitting between his cheeks, holds his breath as --

\-- the bathroom door rattles on its hinges, banging into the wall so hard Hux thinks he can feel the thrum of it in his teeth; the man behind him makes a sudden choked off noise and then he is being pulled back, feet dragging uselessly over the tiled floor.

Hux blinks, blurry, into the mirror.

“What in the kriffing Sith hells,” the guy starts, before a heavy, muscled arm wraps around his throat, cutting him off with a sharp, rattling gurgle. Hux watches his struggling reflection flail its hands. He should probably be more concerned; would probably be more concerned if not for the dram of prime Mon Gazza spice currently working its way through his veins. As it is, he’s more fascinated than anything; the tall, pale intruder currently dragging his would be hookup to the door looks like he means business, black combat trousers tucked into tall black boots, tight black shirt glimmering synthetic under the lights, outlining taut, hard muscle.

Blaster for hire, Hux decides. There are enough of them taking shore leave on this den of a space station, throwing their ill-earned credits at the entertainment on offer. It’s the draw of the place -- anything can be had here, for a price, as openly or as anonymously as one likes. The controlling cartel must be making a pretty mint.

In retrospect, spending one of his precious banked days here may have been one of the worst ideas he’s ever had, regardless of how well it had come recommended by those Hux likes to refer to as independent contractors, or, more accurately, Bala-Tik and his goons. It had, however, been coming up on a full cycle since he'd last allowed himself this sort of getaway. He’d been itching for it, counting down the calendar days until the color-coded blue block of ‘Gen. Hux off-ship’, which may have lowered his bar for leave option endorsements.

Bala-Tik hadn’t recommended the station to him directly, of course. Seven suns would shine in the eponymous Sith hells before Hux would allow such familiarity, and if conversation in the visitors’ quarters was monitored, well… that was a matter of ship security.

No, Hux tells himself, watching the mirror; next time he’s going for the tried and true. Zeltros is admittedly far, and Nar Shaddaa is in Hutt space, but certainly either is likely a safer bet than what's going on behind him. The newcomer has both of blue-hair’s arms twisted behind his back, easily; it doesn’t look like it’s going to end well for him. Hux probably shouldn’t have left his regulation gun behind. He does have a hold-out blaster tucked into his boot, a heavy, reassuring little weight, and he is fairly confident he’ll be able to get a shot off if it comes to it. In this cramped space, point-blank would be awfully hard to miss, no matter how unsteady his hands may be.

The hold-out blaster is a custom job, one of his favorites, modeled after the MandalTech202, but with a smaller chamber, his gift to himself when he made Colonel. He’d taken a few days on Bastion then, though it had been business, not pleasure. Research in the Imperial archives, meetings with the Council of Moffs In Exile. Stars knew there was work enough that he could postpone leave for a year, or two, or even indefinitely -- and still find his plate as full as ever. After the fifth exhausting back and forth with the heads of the Remnant, he had come to the realization that his sanity depended on scheduling regular vacations as far away from Order business as possible, preferably somewhere where alcohol flowed like a river, and nobody knew his name. He’s been scheduling his times off dutifully ever since, and urging his most trusted, reliable staff to do the same. Kriff, dealing with Kylo Ren alone had probably increased his need for shore leave by twenty or so percent.

He’s missed something important, Hux understands suddenly, caught up again in the drugged, languid ebb and swirl of his thoughts as he’s been. He stares back into the mirror and watches the second punch land, cruel and efficient, into blue-hair’s gut. It makes a wet, meaty sound, and blue-hair gurgles again, swaying unsteadily on his feet.

“Go toss yourself off of Level A,” the black-clad man snarls, catching him by the collar and pushing him bodily out through the door. It shuts behind him with an ominous clank, a snicker-snack of working hinges.

Well, this just keeps getting better and better.

The man steps forward.

“I’d ask what a nice First Order officer like you is doing in a dive like this,” he says in a much calmer tone, “but it appears to be fairly obvious. Here,” he reaches out around Hux and sets a credit chit and a commlink next to the sink.

Hux’s vision is beginning to blur and twist a little at the edges, but he knows what he’s looking at -- his personal communicator and the credits he’d had in his jacket earlier. He supposes he should probably have paid more attention to both, but the spice doesn’t let him get too broken up over either their unnoticed loss or their unexpected return.

“What makes you think I’m First Order?” he says, trying to determine whether he should reach into his boot.

“Your comm link. The credit chit could be from anywhere, but that’s nothing civilian. This place attracts a -- certain sort of clientele. It’s a process of elimination from there, and you look like an officer. One of those buttoned-up types, all prim and proper until you get them backed into a corner.”

As if to underscore his point, the man closes the distance between them; Hux can feel the heat coming off of him in waves, and arches his back almost on instinct, the spice-shiver thrumming up through his spine.

“Huh,” the man says. “Interesting. Doesn’t matter to you who’s got their hands on you as long as they keep doing _this_ , does it.”

Strong, calloused hands run up Hux’s hips, lingering over the jut of bone and then back down, to where his trousers are still rucked down around his thighs. The man kneads at his ass, fingers digging in just this side of painful, and Hux regains his ability to move.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demands, whipping around. It would, admittedly, sound better if his voice didn’t go embarrassingly shrill at the top; a lot better if his zipper wasn’t still undone, the elastic waistband of his briefs tucked under his exposed cock, pressing roughly over his full, heavy balls.

Hux can feel himself blushing again, a brilliant crimson. Thanks to the spice, he is still hard and should probably cover himself up, but the man is staring at him, wide-eyed, and Hux can’t quite figure out whether that means he likes what he is seeing or doesn’t care. His cheek twitches, a minute tick, and he frowns slightly, hitches his lip between very white, sharp teeth.

Definitely a merc of some kind, Hux decides, watching the man’s fist clench at his side, knuckles straining like he’s aching to grip the hilt of a vibroknife. Not a bounty hunter. Maybe a personal bodyguard, or wetworks expert to some up-and-coming Outer Rim warlord.

Hux swallows.

“I am not drunk,” the man says finally, voice low. “I’m not trying to rob you. And -- “ he gestures behind himself with a broad palm -- “I had the foresight to lock the bathroom door, all of which puts me significantly ahead of suitor number one, does it not?”

“To be fair,” Hux says, “I’m not _drunk_ , either.”

The mercenary shrugs.

He smells good, Hux has time to decide, smoky with a hint of something sweet and metallic underneath, and then he is gasping, a thoroughly undignified, pathetic noise as the man cups his cock, hot fingers stroking around the base, palm rubbing soft, teasing, over the head.

“Yes or no?” he says, leaning in to nip at Hux’s ear. Hux doesn’t usually like being bitten, nor considers his ears a particularly erogenous zone, but the man is rolling his earlobe between his lips, scoring at it softly with his teeth, and Hux makes another embarrassing mewl, completely unbecoming a commanding officer of the First Order. The man is still stroking Hux’s cock, tight slow pulls that leave him reeling, following every stroke with his hips, rocking them into the merc’s eager hand, and what he wants, what Hux wants right now more than anything is for those thick, long fingers to squeeze at him, just this side of too tight. To fist a ring around the base and just under the head, until he aches, until he can hardly breathe.

He gets it.

The mercenary’s hand circles him hard on the next stroke, like he’s reading his mind, knuckles bumping up under the flared crown. Hux stares down at his cock swallowed up in the man’s grip, at the red, swollen tip peeking out over the top of his fist. At the precome, glistening wetly at the slit, dripping into the crease of his knuckle. The man ripples his fingers, squeezing each one tighter in turn, and then jacks him once, still pressing down hard. It is the perfect almost hurt, and Hux has to lean heavily back against the sink or risk falling, legs turning to jelly under him.

“Yes,” he slurs, hips jerking helplessly forward, “oh, kriff, yes,” and the mercenary pumps his hand around his cock again, squeezing tighter then letting it go loose on the downstroke, exactly the way Hux does it himself when he is in the mood.

Hux moans at that, shameless, not even trying to hold himself back, and the mercenary chuckles low in his throat.

“How very naughty, Officer,” he says, as his hand continues to work Hux’s cock in slick, easy strokes. “Imagine what your fellows would say if they could see you like this, pants down around your knees. Didn’t lock the door, didn’t even go into a stall. Anyone could have walked in, could’ve seen what you’re doing.”

The mercenary grips almost too cruelly around the base of his cock, wide palm and long fingers hitching up slowly to the sensitive head.

“Do they know? Your fellow -- what are you, a Lieutenant? Captain? -- the rest of them on whatever ship you’re stationed on, do they know how you spend your leave?”

Hux sinks his teeth into his own lower lip, torn between wanting to tell the merc to stuff it, and not daring to do a thing that might take that warm, slippery hand off of his dick, the thick thumb rubbing at the tip, coaxing more precome dripping out of the slit.

“Maybe you’re not here alone, is that it?” The merc switches hands, is stroking at Hux with his left, rougher and faster, while his right is snaking around Hux’s hips, coming to rest at the top of his crack. “Were you waiting to be caught? Is that why you’d left the door unlocked, so your friend could come in?” He slips a finger down Hux’s crack, pushing the cheeks apart a little. “Bad luck for him.”

The mercenary’s fingers shuffle lower, knuckles bumping up against his hole. Hux is slicked up already, wet and open, but the man still takes his time, circles his asshole with two fingers, rubs lazily at his rim before pressing inside. Hux gasps loudly even though he expects it, can’t help clenching around the push, the man’s blunt, thick fingers filling him up until he’s shuddering, dizzy, a hot electric tingle working over his skin. It’s the spice, making him feel every touch like it’s something more, something immense and sparking, but it’s the man, too, fingering him deep, slow, like he’s enjoying the way Hux feels on the inside.

He is close, Hux realizes suddenly. Just a little more and he’s going to come. It’s snuck up on him, the way his cock feels so hard, so full in the man’s grip, his balls drawing up tight; when the man’s fingers crook inside him, thick knuckles shifting, his vision goes white, ragged, trails of luminous color at the borders of his sight.

“That’s it,” the mercenary says, “that’s it, come on,” spreads his fingers wide inside Hux, and that’s what it takes, sending him over, cock pulsing thick ropes of come into the clench of the man’s hand. He can smell it, the briny wet scent as it paints over his skin, the slippery mess of it smearing back over his dick as the man keeps palming at him, rubbing at his cockhead until he’s finally pulling back weakly, over-sensitive and wrung out.

The man pulls his fingers out of him with a wet pop, reaches over him to the sink and turns on the water, rinsing off the lube. Hux expects him to do the same with the other hand, palm and fingers streaked with his come, but the mercenary brings it up to his mouth instead and licks, sucking each finger clean in turn. It’s -- disgusting, really, the remaining rational part of Hux’s brain suggests; he hates the taste of come, the slimy, thick texture of it, but the man tastes at it like it’s dessert, tongue circling over his spread open palm.

He’s staring; he knows he is, but he feels too sluggish to do anything else, watching the mercenary as he sucks his come greedily off his hand. His mouth is one of his better features, wide and plush, the lips a wet pink. He is clean-shaven and too pale, his face just asymmetrical enough that once Hux sees it, the slight crooked unevenness, he can’t look away, can’t focus his eyes on anything else without coming back to it, the slope of his chin, the dark moles dotting his cheek. It’s an interesting face, Hux thinks; not anything he’d ever think sober. The merc’s long, black hair is braided away from his forehead in neat rows at the top; it looks ridiculous, but Hux understands the practical application -- making it easier to fit the glossy thick mass under his flight helmet or a targeting visor.

He startles as the water behind him shuts off. The mercenary is staring back at him, dark eyes heavy and hooded, and Hux feels a momentary unease flit through his guts, a strange sharp discomfort somewhere in the back of his skull before it dissipates.

“Turn around. Hands up on the sink,” the man orders, eyes still fixed on him, and Hux’s skin feels suddenly too tight, his already spent cock twitching to attention. He should bristle at it, the command, the insolent tone, but he knows he won’t. It’s why he’s here, after all; what he’s been waiting for since the moment the man put a hand on him, heavy and digging into the meat of his ass.

He turns around slowly, and leans himself on the counter, palms down. The anticipation thrums through his whole body; sweat prickling down his back, the sounds of the man moving behind him, until finally, he is right there, the wet head of his dick pressing into the cleft of Hux’s ass. The first skimming touch of it against his hole makes Hux shiver.

“Move your legs apart,” the mercenary tells him, and then, “Wider.” Big hands move to reposition Hux before he even has the chance to obey, nudging his thighs wide.

He’s been loosened enough that the head of the man’s cock pops in with ease, prying him apart; the merc holds it there for a moment as if he’s getting used to the sensation. Hux feels him adjust, hips rocking slightly, and then he is slamming in, one long thick thrust all the way inside until he bottoms out. Hux lets out a choked, ragged breath and tries to pull forward, but the hands on his hips grip him tight, keeping him still. Even with the spice, even after being fingered open, he isn’t used to taking someone like this, all at once, too deep, too wide. Hux can feel the wiry curl of the man’s pubes rasping up into his skin. The man is big, bigger than he’d expected, and Hux bites down on his lip, tasting copper and spit.

The man eases his hips back slowly, so slowly it seems to take forever, the steady drag of his cock out of him leaving behind a strange, empty feeling. Hux can’t help the noise that escapes his mouth when he thrusts back in, hard and deep like before. It hurts, stars, it _hurts_ , but it’s a different hurt than a scrape or a punch; it’s a hurt that he can’t get enough of, the man’s dick hot inside of him, forcing him wide. All of his nerves are alight, jolting with pain, pleasure, with almost a panicked alarm at the trapped, inescapable feel of it, at the man’s thighs bracketing his. At the man’s hands digging into his sides, careless and tight, and Hux knows there’ll be bruises there later, smudged purple prints of nails and fingertips that won’t come off for days.

His whole body jerks at the next harsh, angry push inside; he moans, scrabbling helplessly at the sink as the man begins to fuck him steadily, picking up speed and rhythm. His balls, hot and heavy, slap thickly into Hux’s spread ass cheeks with a wet, dirty sound. The panting breaths, the mewling little noises underneath, those can’t possibly be him, Hux thinks. He closes his eyes, unable to stand it, and arches down, forehead almost pressing to the cool marble, but one of the mercenary’s hands unsticks suddenly from his hip. He’s being yanked back by his hair, not too rough, but enough to make him follow the tight grip, lift his head back up, obedient.

“No,” the merc grunts, a huff of hot breath, lips almost brushing his ear. “Open your eyes. Watch. I want you to watch.”

Hux opens his eyes.

In the mirror, he sees himself, bent over the sink, face red and sweaty, eyes green and frantic. His mouth is open, wet, panting, tongue hitched between his teeth. His collar is askew, the button opened; the man hasn’t undressed him beyond the trousers, the underwear pulled down to his knees, but it doesn’t matter. He looks naked, body jerking, pushed up onto the counter as he’s being fucked. The merc is hunched over him, his uneven, angular face even more awkward as he moves, dark eyes meeting Hux’s in the mirror.

“You’re going to come for me again,” the man growls. “Don’t look away.”

He doesn’t want to look, but he can’t stop, watches himself get fucked, watches the man fucking him, the man’s dark hair falling over his face in sweaty strands. His whole body is plastered up into Hux’s back as he lets him take more of his weight, hips working faster, cock slamming into him in shorter, sharper jabs.

His hand is on Hux’s dick again, gripping tight, stripping it in quick, hard pulls; it’s too soon, it hurts almost as much as it feels good, but he wants it anyway, pushes his hips, needy, into the man’s hand.

The man jacks him faster; Hux feels tense all over, suspended on the edge, balls full and sore, cock straining, pulsing out precome in spurts. The slap of the man’s hand into his thighs mixes with the sound his cock makes as it spears into him, a wet squelch of the remaining lube, the music still pumping somewhere outside in the the club; he is strained taut, overloaded, ready --

“Come,” the mercenary orders, and Hux shudders and _does_ , toes curling in his boots. He is trembling all over, swollen and sensitive, body spasming, clenching down, and the man grips him tighter, surges forward and bites down on his neck, teeth closing hard over the straining tendon. The man’s hips stutter as he thrusts in a few more times, and Hux feels him come, cock jerking inside him.

The man’s hands finally relax on him. Hux puts his head back down, breathing hard. He’s still coming down, little shivers still racing down his spine, through his belly, and it takes him a few moments to process that the man just came inside him bare.

Hux doesn’t usually let his partners come in him; he hates the feel of it, tacky and gross inside. He grimaces as the man slowly slides his softening dick out of Hux’s used, stretched hole. As expected, a trickle of come slimes down his thigh as the merc’s dick pops loose; he can feel the rest of it inside, a too-wet, dripping mess.

The idea of pulling his briefs and trousers back up, getting them soaked, is repulsive, humiliating. He thinks of turning the water back on, trying to get himself as cleaned up as possible, but before he can do a thing, the merc is dropping down to his knees behind him, hands prying his cheeks back apart.

He feels a puff of hot air on his sore, swollen asshole, and then the man’s mouth is there, slick wet tongue lapping up against him, licking hot stripes over the sensitive rim. The man’s lips close around his hole, sucking and working at the skin; Hux gasps as the man’s tongue pushes its way inside, curling into him with a dirty, slurping noise.

Stars, it’s _disgusting_ , he thinks, knees almost buckling, barely holding him up. His knuckles are white on the sink, gripping tight at the marble. The man is sucking his own come out of him; it’s filthy, horrible, the warm brush of his plush mouth over his strained, worked-over rim, the soft wetness of his tongue as it snakes in deeper. Hux makes a choked, whimpering noise and spreads his legs wider, giving the man better access; his breath is hot, damp against Hux’s skin, nose bumping into his crack, hands digging into his cheeks. He knows he can’t come again, not from this, it isn’t possible, but his dick still seems interested, sore and red and wrung-out as it is.

That is it, Hux decides, as the man’s tongue swirls inside him, pushing, flexing. He is never taking Mon Gazza spice again, not like this. No, next time, somewhere comfortable. A bed. Soft pillows. Hours and hours to have someone do this to him, lick and suck and bite at his ass, turning him smooth and liquid, maybe slipping a finger in, to rub inside as he writhes against cool, silk sheets --

\-- he howls as the man works a thick finger into him alongside his tongue. He can’t think, can’t do anything anymore but hold on, as the man tongues and fingers him faster, sloppier. A hand reaches around to his cock again, palm wrapping firmly around the shaft and giving him a few quick strokes. Hux yells and _comes_ , again, cock spurting weakly, and collapses against the counter.

The man stops finally, standing up. Hux watches him in the mirror, still choking on his breath as the man runs water in the sink, sloshes some over his hands and into his mouth. It looks obscenely red as the man gargles the water through, then spits back into the sink and licks his lips, satisfied.

“Enjoy the rest of your leave, Officer,” he says with a smirk and runs a wet hand through his hair. Then he’s gone, the bathroom door swinging shut behind him, leaving Hux standing at the sink, trousers still undone.

Hux sighs. Examines his wild, heated face in the mirror. Pulls his underwear back up, hissing at the brush of cloth over tender skin.

After washing up, he walks back out into the club proper, sits down at the bar, carefully, gingerly settling himself onto the high chair, and orders three shots of Sullustan gin. It burns going down. Hux thinks about it, running his fingers over the hot, pulsing bitemark aching in the hollow of his throat, where neck meets shoulder, and flags the bartender down for two more.

 

* * *

 

Returning to the Finalizer is, as usual, both frustrating and relieving all at once. Hux goes through his messages, reviews logs and reports from his absence, and is almost comfortable settling back into his routine when Docking Bay 3 calls up to inform him that Kylo Ren’s shuttle has arrived, and Ren is ready to disembark.

So much for at least one Ren-free day on the ship, Hux thinks, resigned. At least he is finally completely free from the effects of the spice. He had read that the colorful trails in his vision could potentially persist for a day or two after the initial high has dissipated, but the chance for the after-effect looked fairly low. Of course, statistics had to go and prove him wrong.

The bridge is bustling when he arrives to take the shift, Mitaka grinning wide in the middle of a gathered crowd.

“What’s all this?” he questions. There are still three minutes before he assumes command of the bridge, and he motions at ease to their salutes.

“General,” Unamo says, folding her hands in front of her like a pupil delivering a report. “They say Lord Ren didn’t have his helmet on when he arrived.”

“I see,” he says. Ren. Disturbing his staff even when he isn’t in the same room. Not the same deck, not even the same side of the ship. “Well? Is there a winner?”

“Not exactly,” Mitaka says, with less fervor. “They only saw the back of his head. He has hair, though,” he announces to the gathered officers. “Everyone who had droid, pay up.”

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, I'm on Tumblr [here](http://cracktheglasses.tumblr.com/). Come play "spot the American Psycho reference" with me!


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